On playground fun
"What's going on there?" asks my charming daughter Scaryduckling as we drive past a children's playground near the seafront in Weymouth.
"What? Where?" I say, my concentration entirely given over to not driving the car off a bridge and into the harbour.
"Those kids in that playground - that's either their grandad with them, or it's a paedo."
At length, we come to a halt in a traffic queue and I am able to see what she means."
"No," I say, "It's far worse than you think."
We wind down the windows to hear the words "Dance, hobo, dance!" echoing up from the playground.
"They've kidnapped a tramp."